


it's a serious thing, just to be alive

by sunlesbian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Hell Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21564439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunlesbian/pseuds/sunlesbian
Summary: in the aftermath of her resurrection, sam and eileen work a case together. it goes about as well as anything else in their lives.
Relationships: Eileen Leahy & Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 75





	it's a serious thing, just to be alive

**Author's Note:**

> hello, it is i, crawling back to the spn fandom after 100 years to openly cry about sam and eileen. this is meant to be set directly after 15x06/eileen's resurrection. 
> 
> disclaimers: i'm not Deaf, so hopefully i've portrayed that aspect of eileen's life with sensitivity! warnings for this fic include discussions of Hell/cage/Lucifer trauma, dissociation, Dean's alcoholism, mentions of cancer (Lillian O'Grady), and canon typical violence. that being said, nothing is explicit!
> 
> here's hoping this holds up even after 15x07 comes out and changes the game!
> 
> _“it is a serious thing / just to be alive / on this fresh morning / in this broken world.”_ — mary oliver, _red bird_

In Eileen’s dream, everything hurts. When she wakes up, disoriented, it isn’t a relief that the pain is gone. That’s the thing about _death_ , or undeath, about being a ghost—nothing hurts because she can’t _feel_ anything. She moves under the sun and through walls and into the bunker and still, she’s separate from it all. Detachment is better than the pain from before, but not by much.

Except right now she can feel the scratchy fabric of the sheets underneath her. Eileen shifts, and the bed moves with her.

There’s movement in the corner of her eye, and when Eileen turns, Sam’s there too, sitting on the floor beside her bed. His lips are moving, but Eileen’s exhausted and confused, and the dim lighting blurs everything. Whatever he’s saying, it’s lost to her.

His hands are moving too, and Eileen watches as he crosses his wrists, opens the gesture again and again—it’s the same sign over and over, and he says _safe, safe, safe._

It comes back in pieces.

Eileen isn’t dead anymore. She isn’t in Hell. She’s in the bunker, and when Sam moves to turn the light on, Eileen can feel the warmth of it. She’s not haunting him; she’s here with him.

“It’s okay,” Sam says. _Sam,_ who brought her back to life. He’s still kneeling on the floor, and his hair sticks up in the back, impossibly human for the man who moved mountains to save her only days ago. She’d asked for a miracle from the angels, and received one from Sam Winchester instead. “I have nightmares too,” Sam says. There are blankets piled underneath him, a makeshift nest where he must’ve slept before Eileen woke him.

“I know,” Eileen says, before she thinks it through. She hurries to explain. “Like I said—I was trying to get you to see me for a while.” Once, he’d turned though. Stared straight at her after another sleepless night. She’d thought— _maybe this is it, maybe he senses me here_. Wishful thinking. It was lonely, being dead.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Eileen shakes her head. “Not yet,” she signs, because the memories threaten to overwhelm her whenever she thinks too hard about them, and Sam understands. He sees her now, and that’s almost enough, after what felt like a lifetime in Hell and weeks on Earth as a ghost. 

Almost. 

There’s still the horrible pit in her stomach when she closes her eyes again, the feeling of weightlessness before sleep that’s all too similar to losing her body again. She wants to enjoy it—she couldn’t sleep in Hell, she couldn’t sleep when she was a ghost. But in the moments before she drifts off, it all comes back anyway. 

So as they both settle down again, Eileen on the very edge of her bed and Sam on the floor beside her, she drops her arm over the side. Holds out her hand towards Sam’s. Wordlessly, he takes it, squeezes her hand tight, and the pressure keeps Eileen inside her skin tonight.

In the morning, Sam’s gone when she wakes up. The blankets are on the floor still though, like he plans on sleeping here tonight too. Eileen takes her time getting ready—her arm’s stiff after sleeping in a strange position, and her hair is in knots. Her mouth tastes sour. She never thought she’d miss _morning breath,_ but somehow, even that is a comfort. All the stupid, mundane parts of being alive on a slow morning, and they belong to her again.

By the time she makes it out to the kitchen, Sam’s on his laptop, two empty mugs in front of him already. A third, still half full of dark, bitter coffee, is forgotten beside him. He says something that Eileen misses, even though he turns towards her automatically. She’s tired, but Eileen focuses enough to catch the next sentence, because it’s Sam. “How’d you sleep?”

Eileen shrugs, and signs, “Okay.”

“Good.” He nods, almost to himself. “Uh, I made something.” Maybe Eileen can’t hear the nervousness in his voice, but she can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he hunches over. “It’s—I went through Rowena’s journals last night, after you fell back asleep.” 

Sam digs into his pocket, and produces a small, wrapped bag. It’s red flannel—an absurd print for a hex bag, until Eileen realizes it must be cut from his own clothing. She sits down beside him at the table, and steals the half full cup of coffee from him. It’s cold already, but she drinks it anyway.

Sam pauses, and then slides the hex bag towards her. “It’s for you. If you want it. I’m still learning, but…” He stops. “It’s meant to keep you safe,” Sam finishes. He signs as he speaks, the same way he did last night. _Safe_.

Eileen touches the hex bag. She was raised a Hunter, the same as Sam. But magic, for her, has been a tool. Especially now, when Sam’s magic is the reason she’s alive, at this table, the taste of coffee on her tongue. And she’s the lucky one. Rowena’s gone. Mary’s gone. She’s heard about Jack by now too; someone she has never met, who Sam already loved and lost within the span of the few years Eileen missed. She thinks about the fact that Sam’s seen his mother’s dead body twice now, the fact that coming back to life doesn’t always mean you get to _live_ that life. Second chances are hard to come by, and even harder to keep. 

Eileen closes her hand around the hex bag, and slides it into her pocket. “Thanks,” she signs, with a slight smile. 

Sam raps his knuckles on the table once, twice, and his own smile is quick and painfully relieved. “Yeah, no problem.” She watches as he clears his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Right. Do you need breakfast still?”

“Took you long enough to ask,” Eileen says, mock offended. “You’re a terrible host. I’m starving.”

That turns his smile into something more genuine, and Eileen’s quietly proud. “Come on,” Sam says, leading her towards the kitchen. He opens the fridge, his back to her in order to do so, and Eileen hovers behind him. 

While he’s busy, she steals the chance to look around the bunker. The neat stacks of dishes, the empty space. The dust. The mugs in the sink, and the bottles of beer in the trash. It doesn’t look different, despite the two years she’s been gone. She doesn’t expect to slot back into Sam’s life, like nothing’s changed, because they’ve _both_ changed. That’s undeniable. She’s been to Hell and back. He’s older, and sadder too. But this place seems the same, and somehow that’s comforting.

Sam touches her shoulder lightly for her attention. His hands are back at his side by the time she turns, and Eileen already misses the contact. Sam’s so careful though—she doesn’t know if it’s for his sake or hers, when she’s seen him flinch away when someone steps too close, too fast. Hell is different for everyone, but everyone who’s touched Eileen for what feels like forever has done so to hurt her. Sam is different. 

“We’ve got old pizza, bacon, cereal, and some eggs,” Sam says. He looks apologetic. “Dean usually cooks around here, but he’s been...busy.”

“‘Busy’?” Eileen repeats, her expression deadpan. She’s been here three days now. Dean’s left his room twice, and both times only for food and beer. Eileen doesn’t mind monopolizing Sam’s hours, but it’s clear that whatever Dean is these days, it’s more than just pressed for time. “I’ll eat anything. What are you in the mood for?”

He considers it. “An omelette, probably. No meat though.”

“Perfect,” Eileen says, too quickly. She’s smelled enough burnt flesh for a lifetime—more than one lifetime. Eileen swallows the question, doesn’t ask Sam if they’re the same.

And later, while picking at his omelette, Sam tells her about a case. He carefully avoids saying _he_ wants to go. Instead, he talks about giving it over to Dean. A peace offering, maybe. An excuse to get Dean out of his room, more likely. 

It’s a plan that’s shot the moment Dean enters the kitchen. Eileen doesn’t realize he’s there until she sees Sam’s eyes land on something behind her. There’s disappointment written across his face before he forces it away. When Eileen turns around, Dean’s there, wrapped in a bathrobe, his arms crossed.

“Take Eileen,” Dean says, as soon as he knows her eyes are on him. He must’ve overheard the conversation. “She’ll watch your back. You don’t need me.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam says, and his expression twitches with something like frustration. He glances at her next, quick and concerned. “She just got back.”

“I can go,” Eileen signs, shifting to meet Sam’s gaze. She doesn’t speak along this time; this is for Sam alone. “I’m ready.”

“It’s your call.” Sam’s own sign is slow and clumsy in response, but she still beams. It’s easier than lip reading, even if she sometimes has to guess here too sometimes, fill in the blanks when Sam forgets a word or shapes it wrong. He’s growing more confident though, she can see that already. Maybe someday soon, they’ll be able to carry on full conversations this way.

“I saved your asses from those witches, didn’t I?” Eileen signs, allowing herself to be unbearably smug. She sees the exact moment Sam pieces together that the sign for _ass_ is exactly what it looks like, and that only makes it better. His college courses didn’t teach him everything, but Eileen’s happy enough to fill in the blanks. 

And, of course, the look of confusion on Dean’s face as he walks over into her frame of vision again is a secondary benefit. “Well?” Dean says, expectantly. “What’s all that mean? Is she in?”

“Yes,” Eileen says, out loud now, because Dean’s looking at Sam for _her_ answer. “I’m going with Sam.”

Dean opens the fridge, pulls out a beer. “Great. Call me if you get stuck. Or hurt. But you won’t, right? Last I heard, that isn’t in the cards for us.”

“Sorry about him,” Sam signs, with a wince, before Eileen can ask after _that_ cryptic comment. Sam's told her some—about Chuck, the endless race they've been trapped in. It's hard to apply that this moment, and more importantly, she doesn't _want_ to. Doesn't want to think about her resurrection, wonder if that was their hard work or a temporary win handed to Sam by a vengeful God. This is her life; she makes her own choices.

“We’ll have more fun without him,” Eileen signs back. Then, out loud: “Don’t worry. We’ve got this one.”

Dean knows he’s missed something, even if he can’t understand their silent conversation. He stares at her, and then at Sam, and then sighs heavily. “Cute. This is what I have to look forward to, huh?” He pops the cap off his beer. “Whatever. Cheers. Just don’t take Baby.” And then he leaves, the tail end of his bathrobe fluttering with him as he turns and no doubt marches back to his bedroom.

Eileen tries—and fails—not to be pleased with this turn of events. She and Sam on the road, in the car, sharing a hotel room. She hasn’t had a case since her death, technically, unless Rowena’s journals count. Those were for her though, and she misses helping people. Misses changing the world for the better, in real, tangible ways. “Where are we headed?”

Centennial, Wyoming, as it turns out, is beautiful and empty. Sam bundles himself in two jackets, and when they step out of the car and into the snow, he immediately falls into step alongside Eileen, close enough that their arms brush together with every step. The snow seeps through her shoes and into her socks, bitingly cold. For her, it’s a welcome shock to the system.

“I hate snow,” Sam says though, half to himself. Eileen rubs her hands together, and tries to radiate warmth as they walk. 

The hotel is small. Rustic. It obviously wants to sell itself on _country charm,_ but she doesn’t see anyone inside who isn’t in the hotel’s uniform. “Are we pretending to be FBI agents?” she signs, as they approach.

“I think so.” Sam opens the door for her. The blast of warmth as they step inside is sweltering, but Sam doesn’t shed either of his jackets yet. 

He’d passed over the case files on the long drive here, as they took turns at the wheel and stopped for gas and the kind of fresh food Sam couldn’t keep enough of in the bunker. In that, too, Sam is careful, and Eileen’s still quietly replaying the delighted look he’d given her when she’d agreed to stop by a local market for dinner instead of any fast food joint. 

It’s a straightforward case—four people missing as of last week, in a town of less than three hundred. It would be six, but two came back, claiming to remember nothing. There are dozens of photos of Cecilia Thompson online, and she always looks lost, downcast. She turns away from the camera, like she can't bear to be there. Her friend, Natalie Cole, is never beside her, despite the fact that she’s just as supposedly saved. It’s a case they easily could’ve handed off, but maybe Sam needed out of that claustrophobic bunker and away from his claustrophobic brother. Maybe he, too, needs to leave a mark on the world right now. Either way, Eileen isn’t going to turn away an excuse to explore the world again.

“I’ll get us rooms,” Sam says, moving towards the counter.

Eileen hesitates, and then taps Sam on the shoulder for his attention. “Or we could share. It’s cheaper, right?” She can’t help the smile as she says it, the obvious admission that she _isn’t_ suggesting this for the cost alone. Sam’s a comforting presence though, and she isn’t ready to let go of that yet. He’s slept on her floor every night since she came back anyway. Why change that? “And I’m the perfect roommate. I don’t even care that you snore.” 

“I don’t snore!” Sam says, his expression torn between amusement and defensiveness. “Who told you that? Dean?”

Eileen shrugs. “It’s an educated guess.”

Sam laughs as he responds, making it difficult to read his lips, but the way he signals _one_ to the manager is answer enough. Everything is shiny and new inside the lobby, and Eileen’s hardly paying attention when the manager passes Sam the keys. She drums a mindless pattern against the marble counter top, appreciating the way it remains solid under her fingertips.

In contrast, the hotel room is bare bones. Two beds, a dirty bathroom. There’s a hideous old still life by the door, fruit that looks rotten and strange in the bad lighting. Old wallpaper everywhere else. Eileen resists the urge to peel it off where it flakes, just to see it change under her hands. She drops her bag on one of the beds instead. “We’re talking to Cecilia in the morning?”

Sam sits down on the bed across from her. “First thing. According to her Facebook, she works at a warehouse in town. If we get there when they open, we should catch her.”

Eileen nods. “Let’s get some sleep then.”

Except she doesn’t. Predictably. In the dark, when her eyes are closed, she sees hellfire. Eileen burrows under the comforter, but it isn’t heavy enough to keep her grounded. She doesn’t know how long it takes her to give up, only that when she opens her eyes again, Sam’s in the middle of a nightmare. She doesn’t need to hear him to recognize it—his expression is pained, his brow shiny with sweat, his long limbs tangled in the blankets and half thrown off the bed. Eileen sits up, turns on the light. “Sam!” she calls his name, out loud, because she doesn’t know if shaking him would be too much, if even a touch would make this worse. “Sam, you’re asleep.” 

Eileen climbs out of her own bed, kneels beside Sam’s. A mimicry of what he’s done for her night after night. Outside of her nest of blankets, the hotel room is freezing. 

Sam’s eyes jolt open, but she can still see his shoulders shake. “Eileen?” 

“Your turn to have a nightmare,” she signs. “Do _you_ want to talk about it?”

Sam sits up, stiff and careful. He takes the comforter with him, and drags it across his shoulders. “I’m fine.”

Eileen waits, and her own disbelief is surely written across her face. Maybe she isn’t ready to talk about Hell, or about death, but she won’t claim she’s _fine_ either. She can't go there yet, but she _will_.

“It’s the cold,” Sam finally says. He wraps the blanket tighter around himself. “It was cold in the cage.”

Hell is different for everyone, but in Eileen’s Hell, they still spoke of Sam. They spoke of the cage. She’d heard the rumors from other hunters even before the Hellhound dragged her down—Sam Winchester, who saved or damned the world depending on who you asked. The demons around her in Hell told a similar story, but from them it was pure anger. Sam Winchester, who was supposed to save them, and he damned Lucifer instead. _Killed_ Lucifer. 

She sits on the bed beside Sam. When he lifts the comforter for her, Eileen curls up against his side. Rests her head on his shoulder. Sam’s warm, and she’s warm, and the blanket traps all that heat inside. Above her, Sam closes his eyes. Eileen matches her breathing to his— _in and out_ , at the same time, and she feels as they even out together, until they’re breathing slow and steady.

Eileen sleeps.

In the morning, Eileen pulls back the ripped hotel curtains to reveal freshly fallen snow. The sky is dark and cloudy still, and although the space heater in their room must be working overtime, she can only feel it when she stands directly beside it. Eileen makes the trek out to the continental breakfast for them both. It would be beautiful outside, but now she’s acutely aware of the way the cold seeps into everything; she can see her breath, and her jaw aches when she doesn't let her teeth chatter. She comes back laden with pastries and fruits and pats of butter and jam though, and Sam’s plugged in the battered coffee pot from the bathroom. 

Eileen and Sam eat their breakfast on the floor, right beside the clunky old heater. Sam drinks three cups of black coffee alongside his food, hot enough that he must burn his tongue with every few sips. Eileen puts too much creamer in hers, until it’s pale and sweet, and convinces Sam to try hers too. As excited as she was about this case yesterday, she doesn’t want to pack up and leave this room now, especially when the snow starts to drift down from the sky again. 

But they do anyway. They make their way through the empty streets to the warehouse, and they pull out their fake badges. As Agents Ross and Lewis, it’s easy enough to track down Cecilia Thompson. She’s younger than Eileen expected, her fingernails chewed short and jagged, her blonde curls pulled back in a ponytail. She won’t look either of them in the eye.

“Nothing’s changed,” Cecilia says. “I still don’t remember anything.”

“We understand,” Sam says, impossibly patient. “We’re just here to check in. See how you’re settling in after everything.”

Cecilia shrugs. Behind her, the work goes on: people rushing to and from the warehouse with boxes and stressed, harried expressions. “I’m fine. Natalie and I—she helps.”

“Would you mind walking us through what happened? In your own words,” Eileen prompts. She redirects her gaze on Cecilia, looking expectantly for her answer.

“The six of us were going up to Medicine Bow Peak,” Cecilia says. “We were going to go snowmobiling. I remember it started to snow, hard, so we were thinking about heading back. Natalie wanted to stay. I—that’s all I know. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” Sam says. “We’ll let you know if we learn anything new. Here’s our number.”

Cecilia nods. Her expression hasn’t changed, as bleak as before, but she takes the business card Sam holds out to her. “Can I go back to work now? The routine helps.”

Eileen nods. “If you remember anything, call us. No matter how small or strange, got it?” As soon as Cecilia’s back is to them, she nudges Sam with her elbow and signs, “That’s the same thing she told the police and the reporters. Word for word.”

“Coincidence?” 

“Hell, no.”

Sam looks grim. Eileen wonders if he’s picturing blood in the snow—if he thinks they’ll need to go up to that distant, frozen mountaintop. If it’s snowing in town already, she can only imagine what storm awaits up there. Sam will go without hesitation if he thinks it will help these girls, she knows this much about him. “Let’s talk to Natalie,” Eileen suggests. “Before we go exploring.”

On the way to Natalie’s house, Eileen pulls over at a drive-through and orders them both hot chocolate. The sticky sweet chocolate taste hangs around in her mouth even once she’s finished, and it brings color back to both their cheeks. The flush looks good on Sam, even if it’s only for a moment. 

Natalie’s house is in the middle of town, if Centennial can be called that. It’s quiet, the kind of place Eileen’s never lived. They’d slowed down once in her childhood, when it was obvious the cancer was going to take its toll on Lillian. Outside of that, Eileen’s life is the same as most Hunters—spread out and sprawling, from hotel room to hotel room. She’s crossed oceans for her revenge, her wanderlust. That’s the life though, isn’t it? 

Then, again she’s come back from Hell itself now. Ireland to America is hardly worth mentioning in comparison to that journey.

When Natalie opens the door, she’s the opposite of Cecilia. Her posture is ramrod straight, her arms crossed the moment Sam and Eileen bring out the badges. “Can you just leave us alone? I’ve got a concussion, for fuck’s sake.” Across the street, the neighbor’s dog begins to howl, and Natalie shoots it a glare.

“We just have a few questions,” Sam starts, raising his palms, hunching his shoulders. He’s painfully good at making himself nonthreatening, even at a moment’s notice. 

Natalie isn’t impressed though. “Did Cecilia fall for that? Did she talk? Because I’m smarter than that. Get my report from the cops. Better yet, go be useful and find my friends.” She slams the door in their faces, and Sam winces. 

Eileen checks her watch. Technically, they could make their way up Medicine Bow Peak now if they left right away, but the sky’s been darkened with clouds all day. She doesn’t enjoy the idea of getting stuck up there in the cold, in the night, and it has everything to do with the way Sam wrapped himself in the comforter earlier. “Let’s regroup at the hotel,” Eileen says, instead, and Sam agrees. 

Sam’s phone rings at midnight. Eileen knows, because she isn’t asleep yet when he sits up, reacting to something she can’t hear. The movement startles her from where she’s curled next to him, the two of them sharing the bed before either of them has the chance for terrible dreams. Sam flicks the light on, an old habit by now, and Eileen shifts closer to read his lips. 

“Cecilia? What’s going on? Is everything alright?” Sam says. He listens for a moment. “I promise. You can tell us, and we’ll keep you safe.”

It’s a grand promise, and one Sam seemingly makes without hesitation. She follows the conversation as well as she can with only one side of it, but it’s only after Sam’s hung up the phone that he lets out a long, slow breath, and the truth comes out. 

“Cecilia remembers. She says something attacked her and her friends up there. Cecilia escaped by herself and ran back to town, but by the time she got back, Natalie was already there too.”

Eileen frowns. “Ghost? Vampire? Ghoul?” She has to fingerspell out the last word. There aren’t always signs for the things she’s survived. 

“Maybe.” Sam stands up, and digs through his bag for his jacket. “Cecilia’s freaked out. She wants to come over first thing tomorrow morning. I think she’s got more to say.” He stretches, and digs his laptop from his bag. “I’m gonna see what I can find out in the meantime.”

Eileen follows him out of bed and sits beside him at the table. Presses her leg against his, because she's half asleep still, and her body doesn't feel like her own without something to remind her. Someone’s carved their name into table— _James was here_. Eileen’s struck by the childish desire to do the same. “Do you think Natalie’s a suspect?”

He looks distracted. “ I don’t know. But I can’t find anything online from her after the incident. She used to post all the time on her Instagram and now? Nothing.” He frowns. “Even the journalists can’t get a photo of her. And the neighbor’s dog, remember? It went crazy when it saw her."

“Shifter?” Eileen fingerspells, thinking of hidden, shining eyes.

Sam drums his fingers on the table. “It feels too easy.”

"I'm owed something easy," Eileen says, but she doesn't disagree.

By the time Sam signals that someone’s knocking at the door, the sun is beginning to rise. Eileen has another pot of coffee going, and the room smells bitter and familiar. Sam only opens the door a crack before Cecilia bursts in, looking far more alert than she did at the warehouse. She slams the door shut behind her, like she expects someone to follow.

“It’s just you two?” Cecilia says, and Eileen sees the exact moment she realizes only one bed is slept in. “Nevermind.” She directs her attention to Eileen now. “You said no matter how strange right? Because this is...I don’t know. I don’t even believe it.”

“You can tell us,” says Sam.

Cecilia nods, shakily. “I saw— _something_ kill Natalie,” she blurts. “I did run, but I looked back. And she was dead, I swear. Something tore her apart. How can she be back now?”

Eileen shifts, resists the urge to glance at Sam. Her first case back, and it’s about _this_. Of course. 

“She’s different though,” Cecilia says. “She won’t talk about it. She says she can't. How am I supposed to know it's really her though? What if I'm just that desperate?"

Sam hands Cecilia the cup of coffee, his brows furrowed. Eileen wishes she could get away with signing to him, but Cecilia’s right there. The odds are good she wouldn’t understand, but even still. Eileen's words are in Cecilia’s mouth though, saying she won’t talk about it, _not yet_ , and _i can't_. Eileen wishes it didn't make her so uncomfortable.

“Do you know what it’s like to be so lonely—to miss someone so much—that you’ll trust anything? Without her, I’ve lost all my friends. Even if it’s not her, don’t hurt her, okay?” She wraps her arms across her chest, and maybe it’s supposed to be comforting, but her posture is as rigid as Natalie’s was at the doorstep. 

Sam sees it too. He frowns, and then, like something’s clicked, “This is one of Chuck’s games, isn’t it? Of course it is.” He steps between Eileen and Cecilia. “I’m not playing along.”

Cecilia frowns. “Uh, no. It’s one of _mine_ ,” she says. Cecilia reaches behind herself to grab the hideous painting on the wall, too fast to be human, and slam it into Sam’s head. He goes down, a miserable parallel to the witches, and Eileen’s heart is in her throat. It’s beating too fast, a reminder that she _is_ alive, and she isn’t willing to lose that again. She isn't willing to lose him either. Eileen spares a glance at Sam, sees him breathing too, and then bares her teeth at Cecilia.

It’s over fast—faster than she’d expected, and although Eileen gets the first blow in, a fist to the face, it isn’t enough. 

When Eileen opens her eyes again, she’s in a chair with her hands tied behind her back, and Sam’s standing in front of her.

Or, not. Not Sam. Because Sam’s tied up in the chair beside her too. She can see him in her periphery, just a silhouette until she turns her head. The muscles in his jaw twitch as he swallows. There's a familiar line of worry between his brows, and a tangle of bedhead he never quite dealt with when they woke up in a rush at midnight. _That’s_ the real one.

Behind this other, fake version of Sam, Eileen sees matted hair, rotten flesh. The remains of Cecilia’s skin are on the hotel’s green carpet, shed and forgotten when this monster shifted into someone new. That’s not all though—there’s another, with dark curls Eileen recognizes from every glance in the mirror. It’s her. Not really, not completely, but it _looks_ like her. Eileen tastes bile—she’d truly thought she could go more than a month out of Hell without seeing her own insides again. How was _that_ asking too much?

“I got bored,” the shifter says, when it realizes what she’s seen. “Took a walk through both your heads. And, _wow_ . Not a fun place for either of you.” It winces, fake sympathetic. “I know, this was a little heavy-handed, but cut me some slack. I was playing two roles, you know? _Did she talk,_ and _all my friends are dead, boohoo_.” It pitches its voice too high, like Cecilia, like Natalie. “I had so much _planned_ though.” It huffs now, frustrated. "A whole bunch of back and forths, and a trip up the mountain. All in honor of Eileen coming back from the dead. She’s a proper Winchester now, huh? And who _knows_ what you are." It tilts its head towards Sam. "Going back to your roots, maybe, you special child, you.”

Eileen has to angle to see Sam’s expression, but she’s rewarded when he looks angry, not afraid.

“Come on,” the shifter goads. “Fine, so we didn’t get to everything. But I’m a shapeshifter. We’re adaptable. Did I have you going? Just for a _second_?”

“No,” Sam says, without hesitation. “You’re trying too hard.”

"How'd you know it would be us?" Eileen interrupts. All this gloating tells her nothing. "There are plenty of Hunters in the area."

Sam glances at her, quick and proud, but there's something like fear there too. "And what if it wasn't? You were gonna do this stupid, elaborate scheme with two characters for anyone? No." He shakes his head. "I know what this is. I'm done." 

It looks angry now, and the expression is so close to Sam’s own, but it's _wrong_. “Yeah, right. You're done when He says so.” It stalks closer to Eileen now, and she follows it with her gaze, losing the specifics of Sam. “You, though? You aren’t even supposed to be here.” Eileen has enough time to swear before it’s there, in front of her, it’s burying a _knife_ into her chest and she doesn’t even know Sam’s last words to her because she can’t see him clearly. She’s going back to Hell she’s going back—

—and then—

—her chest _hurts_. Eileen’s vision flickers in a horribly familiar way, but in her pocket, the hex bag burns.

She waits a long, fearful moment before she dares to open her eyes. The shifter is in front of Sam now, the full force of its gaze on him. Eileen doesn’t risk movement, makes each breath as shallow as she can. Her mouth tastes like copper, rusted and rotten, but she’s still alive. She’s breathing.

The knife is still in her chest. It's one of Sam's, pure silver.

Eileen can’t see the details of Sam’s face from here, and she can’t turn her head towards him. She can only see him in her periphery, a blur of movement. It’s enough to know he’s still alive too. 

Whatever Sam said, or whatever he did, the shifter laughs. It’s wearing Sam’s face, but the expression isn’t his—Sam’s laughs are rare, but they’re full bodied. Head tilted back, eyes crinkled. The shifter smiles with Sam’s mouth, but it doesn’t reach its eyes. Carefully, slowly, Eileen works the ropes holding her hands behind her back. She keeps her eyes glazed over and half-shut, still watching the shifter in front of them carefully. 

“—just the two of us. Sort of. I mean, so many people have been in this head,” the shifter’s saying, tapping its forehead now. “I don’t even know where to start.” Its eyes flash yellow, then black. “Hell, let’s try this one on for size.” It straightens, clasps its hands in front of itself. Its expression smooths into something placid then, almost like kindness if it weren’t so uncanny. Its eyes are clear again, but they still aren’t Sam’s eyes. “Sam. What was the line again? _Made for each other_. Did you miss this?” In the corner of her vision, Eileen sees Sam flinch. She’s going to stab this shifter right through its heart. "You've had a hell of a story so far, Sam."

The ropes fall away, and Eileen only barely manages to catch them before they hit the ground. Did they make a sound? She holds her breath, too focused on this to watch the shifter's lips carefully enough to guess its taunts now. It doesn’t look at her though, so convinced that the blood staining everything means she’s done for. 

There’s a silver blade right here, a constant ache in her chest, but once she moves for it the shifter will know her death didn’t stick. Eileen allows herself one last, careful breath—and then she lunges, drags the knife out of her skin. There isn't time to worry about the pain—it's different, topside, but it's still just _pain_. The shifter’s caught off guard, and that’s enough for Eileen. The force of her tackle takes them both to the ground, but Eileen’s on top. She buries the knife in its chest now before it can react, presses down too hard just to make sure it sticks. Spits her own blood out of her mouth, because she’s alive, she’s going to _stay_ alive, and she’s won.

Eileen stands up, breathing heavily now that she doesn’t have to hide the simple fact of her survival. When she spins around to face Sam again, he’s looking at her with the same wonder she saw in the woods, in the room as she stepped out of the bathtub. How many times is he going to bring her back from the dead?

And then there's the rush of victory, because no matter how strange this case, it's solved for now. It's _over_. And Eileen knows now—they stole this second chance for her. She's not supposed to be here. That's a comfort, when she's heard the tales Chuck wants to tell. This is _her_ story instead. Sam’s too.

Eileen brings her hands up and waves them back and forth, _ta-da,_ a silent applause for herself. “I’ve still got it,” Eileen says. The joke falls flat when she realizes Sam’s expression has morphed from wonder into disbelief, like a shutter falling down, like a defense mechanism. 

She shifts modes immediately. “No, Sam. I’m okay. We’re safe,” Eileen signs as she speaks, repeating _safe_ twice, like a refrain. It’s the most important thing. “Your hex bag worked.” She pulls it out of her pocket, the dark flannel burnt from the inside out. It’s used up, but she keeps it anyway. Thinks about Sam calling magic _control_. “You’ll have to teach me that one,” Eileen adds, before dropping to her knees to untie Sam. Her hands shake, and for a split second she thinks she’ll pass right through him. Even ghosts can kill, if they’re angry enough, and she’s _furious_ at the shifter even though they’ve won. Maybe that’s why Sam looks so afraid.

But her hands are solid still. She’s here, despite everything.

The first thing Sam does, once he’s free, is crush her into another hug. Eileen settles into it immediately, pressing her face into his chest, feeling the heartbeat she can’t hear. He’s _right here,_ and she can feel every inch of skin that touches his. It settles her into her own body again, just like before. This, despite it all, _is_ easy—the real kind, the wonderful kind. They’re owed this. 

Sam pulls back, and signs, “Let’s go home.”


End file.
